


Gomenasai (sorry)

by spirograph



Category: Real Person Fiction, Westlife
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-10
Updated: 2006-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirograph/pseuds/spirograph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothings the same after Bryan leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gomenasai (sorry)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Tarz, my platonic life partner.

Nothings the same after Bryan leaves. Kian walks out of the press conference feeling like he hasn’t slept in an eternity, the heavy sensation of regret in his stomach and a slight tingling on his skin where Bryan’s hands had been. They walk back to the hotel together, Shane and Nicky on one side of him, Mark on the other, and it feels unbalanced, like the whole world is uncomfortably tilted. 

Kian doesn’t remember ever crying so much, the tears just keep coming and it’s not right for him to feel so goddamn wretched, but he can’t help it. Nicky gets over it pretty quick, grinning as he proposes they go out for a round at the local to forget their troubles. Kian declines, finding the mini-bar in his room does the trick and twice as fast. 

And so it goes on from there. The daily tabloids spread out across what passes for his kitchen table, Bryans face smiling up at him. Only, it’s ‘Brian’ now - without the ‘y’, for reasons Kian can’t even begin to comprehend - with shaggy brown hair and facial scruff to cover up his boyish looks. He’s with Delta, all bouncing brunette curls and flawless grinning teeth; she wears flowing multi-coloured skirts and wooden beads around her neck. Kian thinks she looks nice, she looks right. 

They’d all talked about new images and new types of songs. New this, and new that. Bryan had argued against it and Kian had said, “Whatever works for the band, Bryan.” The awkward silence following had continued to ring in his ears long, long after that final conference. And maybe Bryan had gone a little overboard with the lapdancer and all that other stuff, but he’d only been trying to prove that they were still human, that they were still those same greasy kids from way back when who were dreaming of making it big. 

Now Kian thinks he’s the only one who hasn’t truly sold out, slipping uneasily into the kinds of designer clothes he’d never consider wearing outside of photoshoots. All the soul is gone from Shane’s voice when they record their new singles and Nicky’s smile isn’t real anymore, it’s perfectly straight and just-right for television. Mark rolls into the studio at a little past midday, offering unconvincing apologies out to everyone, unwrapping the scarf from around his neck to reveal a littering of lilac hickies that Shane scoffs at and Nicky blatantly ignores. 

Kian finishes his vocals quickly, folds in upon himself on the studio couch and grabs a trashy magazine from the stack on the floor. A while later Nicky sits down by his feet and says “We’ll be fine, you’ll see.” Within months they’ve fallen apart, all of the chemistry that made them what they were just a lingering ache in Kian’s body, the remembered feel of what it was like to really mean something in a world full of wannabe’s and has-beens. 

It’s halfway through the number one’s tour when the phone rings at 2am. Kian whispers, “Yeah?” and Bryan whispers back, “Are you okay?” It’s weird, Kian thinks, that a voice so familiar can sound so goddamn foreign, and the more Bryan talks the more Kian can pick up on a slight Australian twang pulling on his vowels. A week later Bryan’s standing outside his hotel door holding a six pack of bud and the smallest travel bag Kian’s ever seen. 

Another two hours after that all the beers are gone, the mini-bar’s cleared out and they’re sprawled out on the floor. Fingers idly picking at the loops in the carpet, Kian says, “You misunderstood what I meant.” That same awkward silence is back again, as if Bryan’s been carrying it around with him for _years_ , just waiting for the chance to offload it. The tiny bottle of scotch he’s been cradling is fuzzy in Kian’s vision and really, he’s let himself get too drunk because he’s blinking furiously but the tears still well up, burning as they roll down his cheeks. He thinks Bryan’s going to leave by the way he shifts and places the bottle on the floor a little way off. 

“You’re probably right.” Two large hands grab Kian by the jacket and pull him upright until his back is pressed against the base of the sofa. The overhead lights swirl a little bit, Kian’s stomach gurgles and Bryan says, “I’ve never seen you cry.” 

Bryan positions his hands on either side of Kian’s face, pad of his thumb swiping under his right eye, a useless gesture that just smudges salty liquid all over Kian’s cheek. It’s like he’s never cried before, looking up at Bryan through the droplets of moisture sticking his eyelashes together. It makes him want to let go even more. 

Bryan tugs him forward into an embrace which should be comforting, but honestly, it just makes him feel worse. He can’t remember the last time he hugged Shane or Nicky, and God, Mark’s practically inaccessible in every way since he told the whole bloody world he prefers men. Then Kian’s swallowed up in body heat and he feels the moment change, pressing his face against his friends shoulder, Bryan’s lips brushing tentatively against his neck. From there it’s languid, easy steps forward; Bryan’s lips pressing just beneath his jawbone, on his cheek, then at the corner of his mouth. 

“Is this your apology for fucking everything up?” Kian says, and Bryan’s hands slip beneath his t-shirt, hot on his hips, then pause. He pulls back and considers Kian seriously, “Is it working?” 

There’s nothing Kian can say to that, especially not when Bryan’s hands are moving again and he’s leaning in with intent, fingers gripping hard enough to leave bruises as he kisses Kian so roughly their teeth clack together. Kian prays for an interruption - a knock on the door would suffice - but there’s nothing, just the sound of Bryan sighing as they fall against each other.

The rich scent of aftershave on warmed skin is heady as Bryan pulls Kian up off the floor, leading him toward the bedroom. It all happens so fast that Kian hardly has time to analyse his severe lack of hesitation, too distracted by fingers working at his jeans, lips, teeth and tongue working in quick succession on the exposed patches of his skin. 

Afterward, lying beneath cool cotton sheets he feigns sleep, he lets Bryan slide his arm out slowly from beneath his body. He stays quiet as Bryan fumbles in the dark for his clothing, doesn’t say a word when he hears the jangle of keys and the sound of empty bottles clinking together as they’re accidentally kicked across the floor. He finally opens his eyes when the front door clicks shut. 

There’s a part of Kian that believes Bryan will come back, creep back into bed and whisper that he’s sorry again and again. He watches the red glow of digital time as it passes, squinting at the glare, listening for footsteps in hallway outside. When it gets to 7am, the sunlight filtering in through his curtains heats his skin and stings his eyes; he’s still awake, he’s still alone. The cleaning lady comes and goes, dropping empty alcohol bottles into a black plastic bag, wiping up the spills as she shakes her head in disbelief. When she’s gone the phone doesn’t ring and there’s no unexpected knock on the door, there’s no unseen handwritten note to explain: it’s just Kian, the sunlight and the landscape through the windows, as if Bryan had never really been there at all.


End file.
